Misty, tell us a little about yourself, your family, and your caregiving journey. Who are you caring for, and how did you first find yourself stepping into the role of family caregiver?

I'm a wife, a mother of two, a CPA, and the owner of an accounting firm in Virginia. I've spent a lot of years building my career, raising my family, and making plans for the future.

Many years ago, the thought did cross my mind that my parents might eventually need someone to care for them. At the time, my husband was in the military, and we lived clear across the country from my family. My brother lived much closer, so I naturally assumed that if our parents eventually needed care, he would be the one primarily responsible. I actually remember having a conversation with my brother about it. I told him that I understood it would probably be a burden on him because of the distance between us, but that I would do whatever I could to help him. We'd figure it out and make it work.

As it turns out, that wasn't how things unfolded.

Looking back, I can identify changes in my mother's cognitive functioning as far back as 2014. At the time, though, she was dealing with an enormous amount of stress. She was caregiving for her father, her brother had died, and there was a lot happening in her life. I attributed much of what I was seeing to stress, although I was concerned enough that I actually approached her husband and asked what was going on with her. Then they got divorced, and when I say divorced, I mean he waited until she went to work one day, packed up all his stuff, and left. That was an enormous upheaval for her, and I noticed a significant deterioration in her cognitive functioning afterward.

After he left, I started calling my mother regularly to check on her. We have a very complicated relationship, and she's not somebody I would ordinarily choose to spend a great deal of time with, but I still felt a duty and responsibility to make sure she was okay. During those conversations, she started telling me things that just weren't making sense. In particular, she was convinced that her disabled ex-husband was breaking into her house and moving things around. Changing the locks became something of a habit for her, and she would eventually do it every few weeks. Then one day she told me that he'd broken into her house and replaced her toilet paper with facial tissue. For some reason, that was my epiphany. It was like a floodgate opened, and suddenly I understood what was happening. She had gone to the store, purchased facial tissue instead of toilet paper, put it where she normally kept the toilet paper, and had absolutely no memory of doing it.

One of the things that made recognizing her cognitive decline particularly difficult was that my mother had always struggled intellectually. So when she forgot conversations we'd had or misunderstood something, it was easy to attribute that to her just being scatterbrained or to difficulties she'd always had. But the toilet paper incident was different. That was the moment when I realized we were dealing with something much more serious. Within days, I had booked flights to Oregon and arranged to get her in front of a doctor, which ultimately led to her Alzheimer's diagnosis.

The interesting thing about all of this is that I never actually made a conscious decision to become her caregiver. Once I recognized what was happening, I just started handling it. It never crossed my mind that I wouldn't be the person responsible. Maybe that's my natural inclination to solve problems, or maybe it's this deeply ingrained sense of duty and responsibility I have because she's my mother. I couldn't tell you for certain, and it's probably a combination of both. But despite our complicated history, I simply stepped into the role without ever stopping to consider whether I wanted it.

You created a series called The Alzheimer's Chronicles. What inspired you to begin sharing your story publicly? What do you hope other family caregivers take away from following your journey?

Honestly, when I started The Alzheimer's Chronicles, I wasn't even sure anybody was going to be interested in watching. I just felt like people needed to know what the reality of caregiving can actually look like. I was getting really tired of seeing caregiving portrayed as this wonderful, rewarding experience where you're doing this beautiful thing for someone you love. There seemed to be this romanticized version of caregiving out there, and I kept thinking that people were going to find themselves completely unprepared for what they were actually getting into.

And it reminded me so much of how pregnancy and motherhood used to be portrayed. You heard about all the wonderful things, how beautiful pregnancy was, how amazing motherhood would be, and how rewarding it was to raise children. And then you actually experienced it and realized there was a whole hell of a lot nobody had bothered to tell you about.

I kept thinking that we needed to do the same thing with caregiving, particularly Alzheimer's caregiving as that is my experience. Because while there absolutely can be wonderful moments, there are also frustrations, exhaustion, impossible decisions, and situations that are so completely absurd you almost have to laugh at them. And sometimes you're dealing with all of those things in the same damn day.

But there was another aspect of my experience that I thought might be important to share. My mother and I have never had a close relationship, and our history is complicated, to put it mildly. I knew that made my caregiving experience different from the stories I was accustomed to seeing, where the caregiver talks about how much they love their parent and how heartbreaking it is to watch that person slowly disappear. I don't have that kind of relationship with my mother, and I never did. And I started wondering how many other people were out there in the same position but weren't talking about it because they felt like they were the only ones.

There are adult children caring for parents who were narcissistic, emotionally abusive, physically abusive, neglectful, or who simply weren't good parents. Some of us don't have the loving relationships with our parents that other people seem to have. Some of us don't even love our parents, at least not in the way society expects us to. And yet we're still out here, doing the best we can to make sure those parents are safe and cared for. That's a complicated position to be in, and it can be incredibly lonely when you think you're the only person who feels that way.

I wanted people to see what caregiving looks like when you're not doing it because you have this wonderful, loving relationship with your parent. Not because I'm looking for sympathy or a pat on the back, but because I suspect there are other people out there having those same thoughts and wondering what that says about them. I'm not interested in pretending to be some selfless, saintly caregiver, because I'm not. I'm a daughter with a complicated history who's doing the best she can under circumstances she never anticipated, and sometimes that isn't pretty. If sharing that reality helps somebody recognize that they're not alone, then that's reason enough for me to keep talking about it.

And yes, I knew people were going to judge me for talking about these things. I just don't care. But I'll tell you what does get under my skin. When I see somebody making those same judgmental comments on another caregiver's page, particularly somebody who's clearly struggling, I have a much harder time keeping my mouth shut. I am WILDLY protective of other caregivers and have ZERO problems matching energy.

We don't all have the same relationships with our parents, we don't all have the same circumstances, and we certainly don't all cope with things the same way. I don't expect anybody to approach caregiving the way I do, and I think it's reasonable to extend that same courtesy to everyone else.

Alzheimer's changes so much about everyday life, both for the person living with the disease and the family caring for them. What does a typical day look like for you? What have been some of your greatest challenges, and how have you learned to navigate them?

My typical day as a caregiver looks very different today than it did even a year ago. My mother has been living in a memory care facility since August 2025, so I'm no longer responsible for physically supervising her every day. But that certainly doesn't mean I'm no longer responsible for her care. These days, caregiving is more about managing everything that happens behind the scenes. I'm coordinating doctor's appointments, physical therapy, prescriptions, medical equipment, finances, Medicaid planning, and whatever else happens to come up. And I'm doing all of this while running an accounting firm and having a husband, children, and a life of my own. There's a constant mental checklist running in the background.

One of the ironies of moving her into memory care is that, in some respects, it's actually made caregiving more difficult. When she was living with me, I could see what was happening. I knew she wasn't going to eat unless somebody reminded her. I knew she was getting up in the middle of the night because I'd wake up and find her downstairs, sometimes with every drawer and cabinet in my kitchen opened. Now I'm relying on other people to observe those things and communicate them to me, and that doesn't always happen as effectively as it should.

Medication management has been a particularly frustrating example of that. My mother has osteoporosis and is supposed to take calcium regularly. I purchase her calcium in quantities that should last 150 days. At one point, I realized that 219 days had passed and nobody had requested more. Now, I'm a CPA. I pay attention to numbers, and those numbers weren't adding up. So I asked for an accounting of what was left, and there were still 45 days' worth of calcium sitting there. On another occasion, she ran out of a medication, and rather than contacting me, someone at the facility told my mother she was out of it. My mother. The woman with Alzheimer's. Apparently, the expectation was that she would remember to tell me.

To be fair, the director of her facility has been very receptive whenever I've brought concerns to her. But being receptive to a complaint and actually correcting the underlying problem are two different things. So I continue to monitor things, ask questions, and follow up. That's really what caregiving looks like for me now. I'm not the person administering the medications or preparing the meals, but I'm still the person ultimately responsible for making sure somebody is doing those things.

That said, having my mother in memory care has given me back some independence, and I'm grateful for that. I can leave town for a week without having to arrange for someone to stay with her. I can spend time with my husband and children without being physically responsible for another adult every minute of the day. Those things matter, and I don't feel obligated to pretend they don't.

The challenges have also changed enormously as my mother's Alzheimer's has progressed. In the beginning, one of the biggest obstacles was that she didn't recognize anything was wrong with her. She didn't know what she was forgetting because she'd forgotten it. Every effort I made to protect her was interpreted as an attempt to control her. As her Alzheimer's progressed, she entered what I call her mellowing phase. The woman who once fought me over practically everything now generally goes along with whatever we need her to do. The resistance has diminished, but the responsibility hasn't. It's simply changed.

But my mother's mellowing phase has created a completely different kind of challenge, and this one is much more personal. Everybody at her memory care facility absolutely adores her. The problem is that the people caring for her now don't know the woman who raised me. And inevitably, somebody will say something along the lines of, "It's so wonderful that you're taking such good care of your mother after she took such good care of you."

And that can feel like a punch to the gut.

I know they mean well. They have absolutely no way of knowing how far from the truth that assumption is. But I also don't want to stand there and explain what a terrible mother she was to me. I don't want to change how they see her, because the way they see her is actually helping her receive good care. So most of the time, I bite my tongue, let the comment go, and move on. But there have been occasions when somebody has said something like that and I've literally had to leave the facility because it hit me that hard.

Without question, though, the hardest part of caregiving for me has been the guilt. I feel guilty because I don't love my mother the way I think a daughter is supposed to love her. I feel guilty because I made the decision to place her in memory care. And then there's the guilt over the little things, like deciding not to pick her up one weekend to take her out because I have other things I want or need to do. The list just goes on and on.

The more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that my mother spent a good portion of my childhood conditioning me to be responsible for her. I was a child who felt responsible for making sure my mother didn't kill herself. My mother routinely used me as her emotional sounding board, talking to me about her problems and her feelings as though I were another adult or some kind of personal therapist. It wasn't until I got older that I recognized how thoroughly I'd been conditioned to take responsibility for her well-being. And honestly, that realization didn't lead to some dramatic emotional breakthrough. It was more a feeling of resignation. I can fight against it, or I can just go with the flow and handle what needs to be handled. One of those choices creates significantly more stress than the other, and I chose the path of least resistance.

As far as how I deal with the guilt now, I've gotten to a point where I simply acknowledge that it's there and move on. I realized that allowing myself to wallow in that guilt was affecting my relationships with other people, and those people hadn't done anything to deserve the guilty Misty attitude. So now, when the guilt shows up, I recognize it for what it is. The guilt may still be there, but that doesn't mean I have to let it dictate my mood, my decisions, or how I treat the people around me.

If there's one thing I've learned about navigating Alzheimer's caregiving, it's that the challenges never really stop. They just change. I'm going to make sure my mother is safe and properly cared for. But I'm also going to continue being a wife, a mother, a business owner, and a person with interests and a life that exist completely independently of Alzheimer's. I'm not willing to give up the rest of my life to prove that I'm a good caregiver.

Watching someone you love change because of Alzheimer's can be heartbreaking. Have there been moments when you felt overwhelmed, frustrated, or simply exhausted? How do you work through those emotions while continuing to provide the love and care your family member needs?

I think the first thing I need to address is the assumption in the question that watching my mother change has been heartbreaking. Because for me, it hasn't been. I don't feel like I've lost anything, and I'm not grieving the person my mother used to be. I spent a lot of time in therapy years ago grieving the fact that I didn't have parents who loved and cared for me the way parents should. I did that work already. As far as I'm concerned, I've done my grieving.

That doesn't mean I don't recognize what a devastating disease Alzheimer's is, and it certainly doesn't mean I don't recognize the challenges my mother faces. It simply means that my experience of those challenges is different from that of someone who is watching a beloved parent slowly disappear.

What scares me isn't the thought of losing my mother. It's the fact that I have absolutely no idea when this will end. My mother comes from a family where people tend to live a very long time. I can't look at a calendar and say, "Okay, I just have to get through another six months or another year." I own an accounting firm, and I can make plans for retirement. There's an end goal. I don't have that with my mother. There's no retirement date from being my mother's caregiver.

I think people sometimes confuse wanting a difficult responsibility to end with wishing harm on the person you're responsible for. Those are not the same thing. I'm going to continue making sure my mother receives the care she needs for as long as I'm responsible for her. But I can do that and still look forward to the day when I no longer have to. Both things can be true.

As for how I handle the frustration and emotional exhaustion, well, my husband gets the unfiltered version of all of it. Poor Dana. Sometimes he's my whipping post, sometimes he's my cheerleader, and sometimes he's my biggest source of support. That's one of the less attractive realities of caregiving that I'm perfectly willing to admit. Sometimes the people closest to us get the worst of us, not because they've done anything wrong, but because they're the people around when we finally let our guard down. I don't think being a caregiver gives me a free pass to treat my husband badly.

There was a point when both Dana and my brother were adamant that I shouldn't continue taking care of her. My mother and one of her friends had been caught on my security cameras absolutely trashing my character and integrity, and both of them were basically saying, "Why in the hell would you keep doing this for her? She doesn't deserve it." But eventually I sat down with both of them and explained that we all know who I am. I'm a problem-solver. Trying to walk away from my mother's situation was creating more stress for me than simply taking responsibility for what I could reasonably control. Once I explained that, Dana understood. And ever since then, he's respected that decision.

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about caregiving is that the quality of the care you provide is somehow dependent on how much affection you feel for the person receiving it. I don't believe that's true. I don't have to love my mother in the traditional sense to make sure she's safe, that her medical needs are being addressed, that her finances are managed, and that she's receiving appropriate care. Sometimes caregiving is simply a responsibility you take on, and you do the best you can with it while trying not to lose yourself or damage the relationships that actually matter to you along the way.

Caregiving certainly has its difficult days, but there can also be moments of laughter, connection, and unexpected joy. Can you share a special memory, funny moment, or experience from your caregiving journey that has stayed with you?

Oh, absolutely, there have been some genuinely funny moments along the way. I think one of the things people don't always realize is just how absurd some of the situations you find yourself in can be when you're caring for someone with Alzheimer's. And sometimes you just have to laugh, because the alternative is to lose your damn mind.

There was one weekend when I was at my mother's house in Oregon, working on getting everything packed up for her move. We'd uncovered an old letter from my grandmother. My mother picked it up, discovered it as though she'd never seen it before, read it out loud, and put it down. A little while later, she picked it up again, discovered it all over again, read it out loud, and put it down. And then she did it again. And again. And again. She probably went through this routine a couple dozen times.

Finally, she picked up the letter one more time and started reading it aloud, and I just started reciting it right along with her. Word for word. She looked at me like, "How in the hell do you know what this letter says?" And I started laughing and told her, "Well, Mom, you've read it a few times now." And the funny thing is, it actually broke the cycle. Sometimes you stumble onto a solution purely because you've reached the end of your patience.

Another time, we were driving somewhere and she kept asking me about her lab results. Finally, after I told her yet again that her lab work looked great, she suddenly blurted out, "Except for my brain!" I absolutely burst out laughing. It was one of those moments when Alzheimer's gives you a completely unexpected punchline.

And then there was my birthday this year. I turned 51, although apparently my mother thinks I'm doing considerably better than that. Every single time she realized it was my birthday, she had exactly the same reaction. She'd take this big breath and exclaim, "It's your birthday! I'm so sorry!" Eventually, I asked her, "Well, do you know how old I am?" Finally she said, "I don't know, 36 or 37?" Considering I'd just turned 51, I told her, "You know what? I'm perfectly happy with that answer!" If Alzheimer's is going to take away her memory, the least it can do is knock fifteen years off my age.

So yes, there are moments of laughter, and I appreciate them when they happen. They don't erase the frustrations or the difficult parts of caregiving, but they certainly make some days more entertaining. Sometimes a situation is genuinely funny, and there's nothing wrong with laughing about it.

Between your career as a CPA, your family responsibilities, and caregiving, I imagine your days can get pretty full. How do you balance everything? Do you have a support system you can lean on, and what have you learned about making time for your own physical and emotional well-being?

Amazingly enough, I've managed to keep everything functioning, although there have certainly been some creative scheduling arrangements along the way. My husband is perfectly capable of taking care of our home without me, my children are grown and capable of taking care of themselves, and I own an accounting firm that allows me to work remotely from just about anywhere in the country. I also have an amazing staff who are more than capable of keeping the business running.

I also think my professional background has given me a particular skill set that has been enormously helpful. Whether I'm coordinating a cross-country move, dealing with medical appointments, managing finances, or keeping track of everything that needs to happen at a memory care facility, I'm approaching it much the same way I would approach a complicated business project. I identify what needs to happen, figure out the order in which things need to happen, determine what resources I need, and then start working through it.

For example, when I went to Oregon to pack up my mother's house and prepare for her move to Virginia, I was there for five weeks. I didn't take five weeks off work. I'd start working around four or five in the morning, which allowed me to keep up with East Coast business hours, and I'd generally work until one or two in the afternoon. Then I'd spend another four or five hours working on the house before I had to go get my mother. Before I ever got on the plane, I'd already researched moving containers, moving and packing companies, junk haulers, and a real estate professional.

Of course, having a plan and executing that plan are two very different things, especially when you're dealing with a house that seems to multiply its contents every time you touch something. I swear, it was like that vault in Harry Potter. Eventually, I flew my son out during his spring break because I simply couldn't do everything myself, and his help was absolutely essential. I also hired additional muscle. Having a plan was important, but so was recognizing when I needed more hands to execute it.

And interestingly enough, the weekends were generally when I couldn't do any packing. So rather than spend those days getting frustrated because I couldn't make progress on the house, I used them to do things with her that she couldn't do on her own anymore. We'd go to the Oregon coast or find something else enjoyable to do together.

As far as taking care of myself now, I make a conscious effort not to stop living my life just because my mother happens to be part of it. My husband and I still travel, and there have been times when we've been gone for two or three weeks at a time. That doesn't mean I simply disappear when we're traveling. I still text my mother or respond to her messages frequently because I don't want her to feel cut off or abandoned. But I don't believe I need to be physically present every day to be a responsible caregiver.

I think that's really been the key to balancing everything. I haven't tried to become a different person just because I'm a caregiver. I've figured out how to incorporate my mother's needs into the life I've built rather than allowing those needs to completely replace it. Alzheimer's is part of my life right now, but I'm not going to let it become my entire life.

Misty, I'd love to tap into your professional background as a CPA. Many family caregivers face mounting expenses, from everyday supplies and mobility equipment to home modifications and professional home care. Have financial concerns played a role in your own caregiving journey? What advice would you give families who are struggling to manage these growing costs?

The problems I encountered were directly related to how Alzheimer's was affecting her judgment and her ability to manage financial transactions. She became paranoid that her ex-husband was somehow accessing her bank accounts, even though he didn't actually have access to them. So she'd decide that her account had been compromised, close it, and open a new account at another bank. Then she'd get confused about which checks belonged to which account and start writing checks from an account she'd already closed. My mother wasn't intentionally mismanaging her money. She was trying to protect it from a threat that didn't exist, and in the process, she was creating actual financial problems.

One thing I had managed to do before all of this was get my mother to add me as an authorized signer on her bank accounts, which turned out to be incredibly helpful. During the five weeks I spent in Oregon preparing for her move, I finally convinced her to sign a durable power of attorney and a healthcare representative form. Getting those documents completed was an enormous step because it gave me a much clearer foundation for managing her affairs and making decisions on her behalf.

The funny thing is how abruptly some of these transitions happened. I arrived in Oregon on February 22, and my mother had actually driven to work that day. I took possession of her car, and she never drove again. She also stopped managing her money and essentially handed that responsibility over to me.

The other major financial consideration was relocating her from Oregon to Virginia. Between hiring people to help clean out her house, paying for the moving container, and covering hotels, fuel, and other expenses during the drive across the country, I personally spent somewhere in the neighborhood of $10,000. Fortunately, my husband and I are in a financial position where we could absorb that expense. But that doesn't mean $10,000 is insignificant. I recognize that for many families, an unexpected expense of that size would be an enormous obstacle.

My original plan was to move her into her own apartment in a 55-and-older community here in Virginia. Based on what I expected to receive from selling her house, I calculated that she'd have approximately five years of funding available under that arrangement. Of course, that plan went right out the window when it became apparent that she could no longer live independently. The cost of memory care was dramatically higher than what I'd originally budgeted for an independent apartment.

One thing I was extremely careful about when choosing a memory care facility was making sure I wasn't putting my mother somewhere she would eventually have to leave simply because her money ran out. Before I ever moved her into her current facility, I confirmed that it accepted Medicaid. I also researched Medicaid in both Virginia and North Carolina. We live very close to the state line, so I had options in both states. Based on what I learned, North Carolina was the better choice for my mother's circumstances. That was a deliberate decision, not a coincidence.

Now, I want to be clear that this is the arrangement I've researched and planned for based on my mother's specific circumstances. Medicaid programs, eligibility requirements, and what expenses are actually covered can vary depending on where you live, the type of care someone needs, and the facility involved. What I would encourage people to do is exactly what I did: research the programs available in your state, talk to Medicaid caseworkers, ask facilities very specific questions about what happens when private funds run out, and understand your options before you're in a financial crisis. Don't just ask whether a facility accepts Medicaid. Find out what that actually means for your particular situation.

My brother and I came up with a separate arrangement for incidental expenses. We opened a joint account, and we each contribute $100 every month. That gives us $200 a month specifically for things like toiletries and other smaller purchases. My brother was very clear with me from the beginning about his boundaries. He wasn't interested in being involved in our mother's day-to-day care, and I understood that. But he's contributing financially in a way that works for both of us. We didn't need to turn it into an argument about who was doing more. We simply figured out an arrangement we could both live with.

Probably one of the most frustrating parts of this entire financial situation is that virtually none of the planning I would have recommended was ever done. My mother had no retirement savings beyond the little bit of money she'd managed to put aside, no long-term care insurance, no will, and no durable power of attorney until I finally insisted that she execute one.

And here's the part that really makes me angry: I'd been telling my mother and her husband for at least twenty years that they needed to take care of these things. Twenty years! I went so far as to have an attorney prepare legal documents for them, and they refused to follow through. I put together advance directives for them, and they wouldn't sign those either. Part of the reason I pushed so hard was that I had watched both of them deal with the deaths of their own parents when nothing was in place. It was chaotic and incredibly difficult.

I think the biggest financial lesson from my experience is that planning matters, but so does being prepared to change the plan when circumstances change. And if there's one thing I'd encourage families to do, it's to get their legal and financial documents in order while everyone is still capable of making those decisions. Don't wait until somebody has dementia. Don't assume you'll figure it out when the time comes. And for God's sake, if somebody has already gone to the trouble of having the documents prepared for you, sign the damn things.

Many families invest thousands of dollars modifying their homes to accommodate an aging loved one. We're talking about bathroom renovations, wheelchair ramps, hospital beds, and other equipment that makes caring for someone at home safer. Are there tax considerations, financial assistance programs, or planning strategies caregivers should explore before making these purchases?

This is such a loaded question because there really isn't just one answer. And I think people sometimes get so focused on making their homes safer for an aging parent that they forget to consider the financial consequences of what they're doing.

The first thing I would recommend is a cost-benefit analysis. Before you spend tens of thousands of dollars renovating a bathroom, installing wheelchair ramps, or making other major modifications, you really need to ask yourself how long your parent is realistically going to be able to remain in that home. I've seen people spend tens of thousands of dollars making modifications for an aging parent, only to have that parent pass away two months later. Now they're grieving, and they're also saddled with debt from renovations they no longer need. Particularly with a progressive condition like Alzheimer's, you have to consider whether the person may reach a point where living at home is no longer a safe or practical option, regardless of how many modifications you've made.

Now, are there potentially tax deductions available for medically necessary home improvements? Absolutely. But spending money on something medically necessary doesn't automatically mean you're going to receive a tax benefit. First, medical expenses are generally an itemized deduction, which means you have to itemize rather than take the standard deduction. And even if you itemize, you can only deduct qualifying medical expenses to the extent they exceed 7.5% of your adjusted gross income.

Let's say your adjusted gross income is $100,000. That means the first $7,500 of qualifying medical expenses doesn't produce a medical expense deduction. If you have $7,550 in qualifying expenses, only $50 is potentially deductible on Schedule A.

And that's assuming the expenses qualify in the first place. You can't simply remodel your bathroom and call it a medical expense. There has to be a legitimate medical purpose, and the rules for improvements that increase the value of your home can limit how much of the cost qualifies. There are also rules about whose medical expenses you can deduct. Just because you're paying for something for your parent doesn't automatically mean it qualifies on your tax return. The point is that you shouldn't spend $20,000 on renovations assuming you're going to get some wonderful tax deduction that makes everything affordable.

Of course, I also encourage people to explore every available option before committing to a major expense. Find out whether Medicare, Medicaid, private insurance, or other programs might cover any of the necessary equipment or modifications, and consider whether there are less expensive alternatives that would accomplish the same thing. For example, medically necessary durable medical equipment may be covered under certain circumstances, while major structural renovations often aren't. Depending on where you live, there may also be state or local assistance programs, aging-services organizations, or other resources worth investigating.

But ultimately, my biggest concern is keeping people from going into debt over this.

We should not be going into debt taking care of our parents. That's not the way this is supposed to work.

If you're in your fifties or sixties and you take out a substantial loan to renovate your house for an aging parent, how much time do you realistically have to recover from that decision? And it isn't just about the money you spend today. It's about the money that money could have earned if you'd left it invested for retirement. It's about whether you're building financial security for yourself and potentially leaving something behind for your own children.

You're sacrificing your own retirement security to take care of your parents, but in doing so, you may be putting yourself in a position where your own children will eventually have to sacrifice their financial security to take care of you. And now we've created a cycle.

I also think people need to question the assumption that keeping their parents at home is automatically the best thing for them. It's almost like when you have your first child and you're getting ready to take them to daycare for the first time. You hesitate. Because you're thinking, "Nobody is going to take care of my child as well as I do." I think people go through almost exactly the same emotional process when they're considering whether an aging parent should remain at home or move into a care facility.

But the reality is that some people can't safely age in place. Some people shouldn't.

For a brief period, I actually considered having my mother move into our house. But then I started looking at what that would realistically involve. We don't have a downstairs bedroom or even a full bathroom on the first floor. The stairs were dangerous for her. And that was only the beginning. I would also have needed to hire home health care or some other form of in-home assistance. My mother couldn't reliably remember to take her medications, eat meals, or stay properly hydrated. So even if I spent thousands of dollars modifying my home, what would I actually have accomplished? I'd have a house that was more physically accessible, but I'd still have a mother who couldn't safely be left alone. Ultimately, I decided that a supervised care environment was the more appropriate option for my mother.

And I'll tell you something: this entire experience has made me a better CPA. I understood the financial analysis before. But now I also understand what it's like to be the person making those decisions while dealing with the emotional complications, family dynamics, and everyday realities of caring for someone with Alzheimer's. Sometimes my job is to tell people that they may be making the wrong decision, even when that's the last thing they want to hear. That's why I encourage people to talk to someone who can look at their situation objectively. And just as importantly, they need to be open-minded enough to hear what that person has to say.

You can care about your parents and want them to be safe without sacrificing your own financial future in the process.

Whether it's hiring professional caregivers, reducing work hours to provide care, or eventually considering assisted living or memory care, the financial implications can be enormous. From your perspective as a CPA, what should families be doing now to prepare for these expenses? Are there overlooked tax benefits or financial planning opportunities that might help ease the burden?

The first thing I would tell families is that they need to evaluate their parents' finances. Not their own finances. Their parents' finances.

What can Mom and Dad actually afford?

I have a very strong opinion about this: It is not the children's responsibility to finance their parents' long-term care. If that planning didn't happen, you have to deal with the financial reality that exists today. And that means making decisions based on what your parents can afford, not how much of your own retirement you're willing to sacrifice to give them something better.

I was not going to substantially dig into my retirement savings or my current income to finance my mother's long-term care. That was a boundary I established for myself. I ultimately realized that my mother wasn't going to get a top-of-the-line facility with every amenity imaginable. She wasn't going to have a swimming pool, a gym, or an on-site doctor. She was going to live somewhere she could afford, and that's exactly what I arranged. Now, does that mean she's not being well cared for? Absolutely not. Does that mean she's miserable? Not in any way, shape, or form. She's actually very happy with her living arrangements.

I think that's an important distinction because families sometimes equate spending more money with providing better care. What matters is whether they're safe, whether they're receiving appropriate care, and whether the arrangement is financially sustainable.

And here's where I would take that advice one step further: If you're an adult child dealing with this situation right now, I want you to look at what you're going through and ask yourself a question: What am I doing to make sure my own children never have to make these same decisions?

Maybe that means exploring long-term care insurance. Maybe it means looking at life insurance products that include long-term care benefits. Maybe it means other retirement or asset-planning strategies that are better suited to your particular circumstances. Those options all have different costs, limitations, and risks, so you need to understand what you're purchasing and whether it actually fits your financial situation. The point is that you should be doing something.

I also strongly recommend researching Medicaid eligibility, state assistance programs, and the financial policies of any facility you're considering before making a commitment, even if your parent currently has enough money to pay privately, because circumstances change. It's not enough to ask whether you can afford a facility today. You need to ask whether the arrangement is going to remain financially sustainable if your parent's circumstances change. You may never need that assistance. But if you do, you're going to be awfully glad you investigated it before you were in the middle of a financial crisis.

What I think people overlook much more frequently is their own financial and tax planning. They become so consumed with taking care of their parents that they forget they still have their own financial lives to manage. And it's not even limited to finances. I can make absolutely certain that my mother gets to every doctor's appointment she's supposed to attend. But when was the last time I made a doctor's appointment for myself?

Your financial future still matters. And your children are going to be a whole lot better off if you remember that.

When it comes to reducing your work hours or leaving your job entirely to care for a parent, I think that's an incredibly individual decision. In my own situation, I could have quit working and stayed home with my mother. But I've spent the last sixteen years building my accounting firm from the ground up. I wasn't going to walk away from sixteen years of work to become my mother's full-time caregiver. Just because you're financially capable of making a sacrifice doesn't mean you're obligated to make it. The important thing is to make that decision deliberately, with a clear understanding of the financial consequences.

One of the biggest recommendations I have for families is to have frank conversations with their parents about finances and long-term care while their parents are still cognitively capable of participating. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Please, please, please! Have those conversations. Can I promise those conversations are going to accomplish anything? Absolutely not. But you still have to try. If your children are eventually going to be responsible for managing your affairs, they need to know what they're dealing with. They need to know where your accounts are, what assets you have, what debts you owe, what insurance policies exist, and whether you've made any provisions for long-term care.

To any parents who may be reading this, please understand that your adult children aren't necessarily asking about your finances because they're interested in your money. They may be asking because they're trying to make sure they can take care of you without having to untangle a financial disaster at the same time.

We shouldn't be sacrificing our own financial security to take care of our parents, only to leave our children in a position where they have to sacrifice theirs to take care of us. That isn't financial planning. That's just passing the problem from one generation to the next, and we should be doing everything we reasonably can to prevent that.

Misty, you've experienced caregiving personally, and through The Alzheimer's Chronicles, you're helping others understand this journey. Looking back, what do you wish someone had told you when you first became a caregiver? And what would you say today to someone who has just learned that a loved one has Alzheimer's and is frightened about what lies ahead?

You know, it's strange, because when I think about what I wish somebody had told me when I first became a caregiver, I honestly can't come up with one specific thing. Other than the unvarnished truth.

When I first started taking responsibility for my mother, I had a lot of people telling me how proud they were of me. My aunties, in particular, were incredibly proud of me, but their perspective was a little different. They knew how abusive my mother had been when I was growing up, and they were watching me take responsibility for the very person who had caused so much of that pain. But for all the people telling me what a good job I was doing, nobody was really telling me that I was in for a rough ride. Being told you're doing a wonderful job feels good, but it doesn't necessarily prepare you for what comes next.

If somebody came to me tomorrow and said, "My mother was just diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I'm terrified, and I don't know what to do," my first response would probably be, "Oh, shoot. Let's go have a glass of wine."

Seriously.

I'm not going to tell them everything is going to be fine. I don't know that. I'm not going to tell them this is going to be a beautiful journey or that they should cherish every moment. I'd probably start by sitting down with them, having that glass of wine, and letting them talk. And then, if they wanted to hear it, I'd share my experience. Sometimes people need information. Sometimes they need practical advice. And sometimes they just need somebody who understands what they're facing and is willing to listen.

I can't make the diagnosis go away. I can't promise them an easy experience. What I can do is offer them something I would have appreciated when I started: somebody who's willing to tell them the truth when they want to hear it, without pretending that any of this is easy.

There isn't one correct way to handle caregiving. Every family has its own history, its own relationships, its own financial circumstances, and its own limitations. And every person with Alzheimer's is different, too. You have to figure out what works for you, your family, and the person you're caring for.

Now, am I judgmental of myself? Absolutely. I'm incredibly hard on myself. But I do think I've learned to give myself a little more grace. And I think one of the biggest things I've learned through this experience is patience. Not just patience with my mother or with other people, but patience with myself. I'm still learning. I still have a long road ahead of me, and I still have an awful lot of growing to do.

As far as what I hope people take away from The Alzheimer's Chronicles, I want all the things. I want people to learn something practical from my experiences. I want people to realize they aren't alone in what they're experiencing. Because Alzheimer's can put you in some really strange situations, and sometimes you find yourself wondering whether anybody else has ever dealt with the ridiculous thing that just happened to you.

Trust me, somebody probably has.

And I absolutely want people to be able to laugh. I don't want The Alzheimer's Chronicles to be nothing but doom and gloom. But I also don't want to sugarcoat what caregiving is really like. I want to share the good, the bad, the frustrating, the ridiculous, and everything in between. And if I can make somebody laugh on a day when they're having a particularly difficult time, I'll consider that a win.

Because that's what I wish I'd had when I started. Not somebody telling me what a wonderful daughter I was. Somebody willing to tell me what this was really going to be like.